An artist in name fact and form
I keep on creating a reality that's torn
from the Truth and its Lies
that forced me still to stay blind
with no passion nor time
to mind the withering eyes
in my portraits
But artist I stay
even when my brushes lay
on a white cold place
and my muse has died
through the shapes that she tried
to take on and survive
so she walked out the door
and the colours are no more
with my hands painting still
the lonely emptiness of my core

it's electric
chilling to the touch
can't let go of the idea

your hands gliding
down my arms
to grasp my hands

it's a silly i suppose
the way i dream of you
but i can't help it

have we met before?
or do you stay here
during waking life?

locked away, as i remain.
longing for the moments of rest
where i'll still find you

do you wait for me?
between delicate dreams
and a fifth dimension?

do you know how you move me?
phantom touches of fingertips
as you look into my eyes?

god, i'd love to be loved
to remember the glow if it,
even for a moment.

to remember how it feels
to wear a borrowed sweater
or to lend mine to a lover

to wear it.
the hug that lasts
'til you decide it's over

to feel it.
the warmth that lingers,
your heart in their sleeves

to breathe it.
the smell of their cologne,
the connected memories of being held

held in a way that let you know
that they never want to let go,
that to do so is a temporary measure

so later on,
they can embrace you once again
reliving the euphoria of human connection

but is it love?
to crave when you are so starved
or is it merely loneliness

to crave the escape of a lover's arms
carefully wrapped around you,
as they whisper low

those sweet nothings,
telling you that you are everything
when you have felt so empty

a resurgence of half-filled cups,
rose-tinted outlooks and lovesick melodies
exchanged glances that form their own languages

and i want so badly
for a name to be honey in my mouth again,
so sweet i am afraid to open up and let it out

i crave so deeply the feeling
of being fully clothed and yet naked,
fully myself and fully in love.

and i may be a romantic,
but i don't need flowers at my door
i don't need you to tell me what your heart is for

i want the little things,
tag teaming the dishes as you tell me your day,
the rough draft of the email you need to send

( if it needs an edit, i promise to be kind )

nothing speaks of love like the mundane,
to share a life; to share even a moment
what else could be so intimate?

i want to know your middle name
or to invent, should you not already possess one
i want to have knowledge that gives fae their power

i want to know your favorite color,
so i can wear it when i'm alone
to encapsulate the meaning

i desire above all else,
to be loved
with only the best intentions

why would the world be beautiful
if every inch of it didn't deserve
to be enveloped by love?

i ponder alone